dying echo
by MessengerOfDreams
Summary: I've gotten to some bad destinations on trains before, but I keep riding them, because I want to prove that it wasn't my fault for riding the train. There's no need for any guilt. I'll get where I need to go no matter what. AU, Real Life, Set in Portland. (Warning: Triggers, Frequent Mentions of Rape and Traumatic Incidents) (For ALSA's Suspense Contest)


**Caution: The following program may have some content that is not suitable to some viewers. The story is rated M for a reason. Trigger warnings galore, there are mentions of rape and traumatic events, which sort of drives the focus of the story. The main character will likely draw some very divisive reactions, but let it be known that I do not claim to endorse or be perfectly knowledgeable about what's going on. I'm just the messenger. Viewer discretion advised.**

**This is also very heavy AU. It's set in my hometown, in the real world, but it's a tragic take on the Bowser kidnaps Peach scenario that does not in any situation follow canon. You'll see.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, regret nothing and let them forget nothing.**

_You were a poison. _

_I told myself to let go of my insecurities for a moment. I wasn't in love with you, but I was fascinated by you. You were charismatic beyond the abilities of anyone else I knew. When you asked me to dance, I danced with you, just to see how you danced (with the grace of people I would see on TV and envy). When you spoke, I listened to hear how you spoke (as eloquent as Shakespeare, if not quite as wordy). When you led me out of the room, I followed, to see where you'd lead me. _

_That was my mistake._

_I told you I was engaged. You said that you understood. I apologized for my distant attitude. You said that you understood. I explained the meaning of Asperger's Syndrome. You said that you understood. I said that I'd rather we not go too far away from the dance hall. You said that you understood._

_I told you no. That's what you didn't understand._

**_Chapter 1  
_****_Douglas Dies First  
_**

**_~MoD~_**

_"Hello."_

_You notice me as I brazenly address you, stranger I don't know. "Oh! Well, hello, miss. Do you do this often?"_

_I shrug. "Do what often?"_

_You gesture to the area around you, pointing at me, then back at you. "You know... this."_

_No, as a matter of fact, I don't talk to strangers often, but you're smiling at nothing, and I like that. "No... not really. But you interest me."_

**_~MoD~_**

Stories that start with death generally don't end well.

I'm the only one who hasn't shed a tear for him at his funeral, which I know immediately sets everyone else on edge. The wry smile I'm sporting definitely isn't helping matters. Being Douglas' girlfriend, people expect me to be emotional, to mourn perhaps more than most of them. The thing is, I don't cry. I'm not that weak.

Repeatedly they give me odd glances, as if they were wondering who let his killer into the memorial. I didn't kill him, though. I may be bad luck, but I'm not going to kill an innocent man.

I take a seat in the front row as the priest begins his spiel, awkwardly twirling my curly blonde hair around my finger. I did not expect to see so many people here, but half of Portland seems to have turned up. I'm surrounded by hundreds of people who haven't met Douglas but are grieving more than I am.

I guess when someone murders the Northwest's only international racing star, people seem to find that weird. It's crazy how emotionally affected these people are for a man they didn't meet. I wish I had this many people looking out for me, but alas, it is not to be. I just play my part as the not-so-grieving girlfriend who everyone finds odd for not being a completely emotional mess.

People pick and choose what to grieve about. I simply choose not to grieve. I wish they would understand that this is my decision and that they would stop staring me down. Frankly, it's getting on my nerves.

I do miss him, somewhat. I didn't really know him that well, but that's what happens when you meet your boyfriend on a train. We hit it off pretty well, but I didn't love him. Love didn't come easy to me. I figured he understood. I stayed with him, though, because he was interesting and I enjoyed his company.

Is it macabre to bring your boyfriend's body to the morgue and examine it after the crime scene dies down? Apparently my coworkers think so, but I honestly don't care. I'm a mortician. It's my job to find out how people died. They put Finnegan in there to keep an eye on me, because I was just as much a person of interest as anyone else Doug knew.

It was a very awkward scene. I had to reassure him multiple times that I was all right. I was all right from the first body they brought in here, and I'll be just fine when I examine my last one. It's why they hired me in the first place. I didn't get emotional. I didn't feel grief as I examined the dead bodies. They can give, and often have given me, the elderly, children, even whole families. It's a job. I'll do my job. I'll be alright. I wish people would stop worrying about me. I'm not an emotional person.

I don't laugh much, but Douglas managed. He was very theatrical and far more flamboyant than a man of his stature and sexual preference usually is, but he was very self-aware, so it balanced out. That's how we first connected, as strangers on a train.

I spent a couple of months confirming that he was, in fact, very funny, and that he understood me without me telling him everything. It's a shame he died, but that's what happens when you kiss a broken mirror. I'm a human black cat, the ladder you can't crawl under, the crack in the sidewalk. I'm every superstition rolled into one.

Frankly, I'm not at all surprised that he died. I applaud the killer, however, on his artful choice of a murder scene. There is nothing more demoralizing than killing a sports hero in the seat of his own car. A straight-up bloodletting, too. I didn't even need to put him on the table to tell, but I did anyways. I wanted to be a hundred percent sure that I was right.

I examined Douglas' body to confirm that he had been left to bleed. His wrists had been sliced open, his hands curled up as he held on to the wheel. They say it must be awful to wait for death, but once upon a time I waited and it never showed up. I envy him in some ways; not because I wish I were dead, because he only had to wait a few minutes as opposed to a few weeks. On many other levels, I pity him, because I don't think he knew what he was getting into when he fell for me.

I wonder if he ever found out in his last moments.

I wonder if he knew why he died.

He and I had hit it off surprisingly well, but it had only been a few weeks, so I didn't tell him about Bowser. I wasn't trying to hide anything from him, but it's not exactly fun to talk about being locked up, tortured and raped with your new boyfriend. From what I can imagine, it would really turn things sour. I'd be surprised if he didn't know, but I had changed a few things about myself since then, such as my name, my hair color, my general appearance and my city... as well as everything else.

I did this after Bowser was apprehended and locked up and before I even knew he posted bail. He wasn't the reason why. I wasn't trying to impose an impromptu witness protection. It wasn't him I was protecting myself from. It was the pity. It was the sympathy by people who thought they could understand. It was the condolences and the flowers, the coverage of the story on the news, seeing headlines about Laurence Bowser and the horrifying scandal and his traumatized victim Dana Flowers.

It's happening again. I can feel it. I keep feeling them staring me down, their eyes like pinpricks on my neck just like it was so long ago. Oh, poor girl, to find her boyfriend murdered in her car. She must be so traumatized. No, I'm not. I'm a mortician. When I find scenes like these, it's usually followed by a sigh as I go back and prepare to dissect their bodies. Case in point, that's exactly what I did with Doug. I didn't cry then, I won't cry now.

I just wish they'd stop making me the totem of their own grief and trauma.

I am not traumatized. I am not a victim. I refuse to be a victim. I left because I was finished with being a victim. I had already spent nearly a month in the basement of a demented serial killer being a victim, and that was all that I ever needed.

I knew he would come back, though. Bowser was rich, therefore he was resourceful. Above all, he knew how to torment me, or at least he used to. Not much can scare me anymore. I'm not one for being hurt. Never again.

I wonder if he knew that I haven't shed a single tear. The idea makes me smile.

I've gotten used to dark comedy.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. I allow them my attention, raising an eyebrow. It's Finnegan, to the surprise of no one, trying to see if he can comfort me. He is surprised when he sees that I'm still smirking at the idea of letting down Bowser, who wasted a man to get me to break down and who, so far, has failed.

"Are you... okay?" he asked, his voice as weathered as you'd expect from a New Yorker, as out of place as it is here in Portland. I'm not surprised that he finds my countenance confusing in the exact opposite way of what one would suspect. It's funny how the only one who seems off in the graveyard is the one who has a wicked smile on her face. I suppose I'm not really helping ease any suspicion, but the police can talk to me whenever they'd like.

"I'm okay, Finn," I assure him.

He raises an eyebrow in turn, placing his hand on my shoulder. He means well, but I shake out of his grip. "Please don't." It isn't a request. He understands that I don't ask things and simply shrugs.

"I didn't really know him that well," I explain.

He nods. "Still. You found him. That can't be easy, you know... seeing something like that."

"I've seen things."

He hums in what he believes to be understanding. He thinks that I'm relating this to my job, but obviously that isn't the case.

While I'm on the subject, I ask him, "When do you think the police will want to talk to me?"

He shrugs, proving his status as a master of nonverbal communication. "After the funeral. Probably sooner than later."

"Good," I reply. "The sooner this all is over, the better."

"No joke," he sighs before we fall into silence.

This is all too much. So much grief and sadness. It's getting on my nerves. I honestly don't really care anymore. He's dead, it's sad, I know. I want to move on, so I tell Finn, "Let's go now."

Finn doesn't even question me. He's one of the few people, and the only one at the morgue, who even remotely understands what I'm like, if not why I'm like this. Seeing as he only attended in an unnecessary attempt to support me, he follows me out. I don't pay much attention to any of the chatter that surrounds as I get out of my seat in the front row and leave the procession by Douglas' grave site. Finn is a different story; I can feel the apprehension from him as he notices the dirty looks, sparing an anxious look at the news cameras as if they were following us. I know what everyone is wondering. "Why is this bitch leaving during her boyfriend's funeral?" I know my replies would only make it worse, so I replace honesty with ambiguity.

Finn catches up with me as I find my car just alongside the ring road of Riverside cemetery. "Did you see the way they all looked at you?"

"Don't care," I reply.

"I do," he replies, his voice stern. "I don't like the way they're treating you about this. They should respect the way others grieve."

I'm not grieving, I want to say, but I bite my tongue. Finn seems generally hurt over how they're treating me, and I don't want to upset him. I just left a crowd of upset people, and had I stayed another minute I probably would have lost my cool. I just tell him, "stop worrying about me. I'm fine."

He simply shrugs as I open the door. The car is, for lack of a nicer term, old and beat-up, especially amid news vans and Lamborghinis. This time last year, it wouldn't be the car you'd expect me to drive, but I prefer it better. No one notices a beat up Ford Focus the way they do a Maserati. I can't believe I was the first to notice Doug dead in his.

Maseratis are bad luck, like me.

He crawls in, his noticeable, albeit not offensive girth making it hard for him to fit. I notice his discomfort. "You can sit in the back if you don't mind moving the papers."

He chuckles. "Sounds like a plan." Knowingly, he taps his stomach and admits sheepishly, "I keep saying I'm gonna lay off the cheesecake."

I respond with a smirk. "Cheesecake is nice. No need for any guilt." _No need for any guilt. _It may as well be my motto, the amount of times I've said it, to myself or others.

"Well, when your feet aren't the first thing to enter a room, then maybe a little guilt is good for you," he cracked as he crawled into the backseat, placing my loose papers and notes in a pile next to him. He provokes a small laugh from me, a genuine one that denotes happiness. It's well deserved. Finn is one of the nicest people I've ever met, but I haven't met many nice people in the world.

"Which way to the police station from here?" I ask.

"Once you get out of the cemetery, head north on Macadam."

"That's what I thought. Anyway, the sooner we get this over with, the better. I'd like to prove I'm not a murderer."

"Hey," he snaps. "They don't suspect you of anything. And if they do, maybe this will be a lesson not to be so eager to drag your boyfriend in the morgue room."

"Again," I smirk.

He turns red. "Correction: your boyfriend's corpse."

I sigh. "Finn, that's just how I work. I just wanted to get it over with. Just like I'd like to get this over with."

"I know," he sighs. "I'm not trying to be hard on you. I just... worry about you, is all."

I turn onto Macadam, ready to tell him off, but I realize that in the corners of my mind, I still resent that only one man cared enough when I was locked away with Bowser to do anything. Finn doesn't know that, nor does he need to, so perhaps the fact that he is offering his concern is something I should appreciate a little more.

I may as well enjoy it while it lasts.

"You do that," I reply dryly, but I wonder if he notices that I'm smiling.

_**~MoD~**_

_You grin. "I interest you? Like a clown? Like, I amuse you? Am I funny?"_

_I take you up on the challenge. "I don't know. Are you?"_

_You raise an eyebrow. I don't fall for tricks like that very easily, but I still find myself smiling, because I'm excited. "We shall find out, won't we?"_

**_~MoD~_**

"Miss... Peach Sprachiano?"

"Present."

"I am sure that you know that you were summoned here to talk about the death of your boyfriend, Douglas Jay Falcon." The receptionist at the police station is unsmiling, but rarely is anyone in a police office in a good mood on-duty. "I'll call in the detective to speak to you."

"Please do," I reply tersely. I've already dropped Finn back off at home before I went here, insisting that he doesn't have to worry about me.

Having gone from one metal chair to another, I settle down and take a small notebook out of my purse. Immediately, I become preoccupied with the writings I've meticulously planned throughout the notebook. It's a plan, because I've learned not to be unprepared. This one is more of a schedule, a list of things I want to do. On the top of that list is currently Jacqueline, but that can wait until later tonight. Whatever the case, I know that I'll spend the night there. She'll probably tell me that I need to relax, that my muscles are strung so tight that a wrong step could spring my limbs off of my body. Then she'll show me the benefits of becoming shag buddies with a yoga instructor. I could use that.

It's not the typical daily schedule I'm adjusting today. This new schedule is different. I'm used to planning things close in, but I decided that, in light of recent events, I would be more prepared. I've learned to live with wrenches in my plans.

Quietly, I cross the first item off my list and turn the page, finding it fit to spend the rest of my waiting time sketching maps of the city. Upon moving to Portland, I made it a point to find out where everything is. This is just another training session, although I have a mind fit for memorizing things. I make sure to circle whatever specific spots I think might be interesting.

The detective shows up just after I intersect 82nd and Foster. His brown beard nearly consumes his face, but I make out his soft, bulky features. He's startlingly well built, as a police officer should be if they're going to get anything done. I place the notebook in my bag and greet him with a nod.

"Peach Sprachiano?" he asks.

"Present," I repeat.

He shifts gears into the warm and friendly everyman that all good cops are supposed to when they begin to talk to someone. "Daniel Kong. It's a pleasure."

"Sure," I reply listlessly.

If I'm putting him off, he doesn't let it show. "I hope you know that this isn't going to be a serious interrogation. I just want to ask you a few questions about Douglas. I know it's a little fresh in your head, so I'll do my best to be respectful."

I nod. "I'd like to get this over with."

"I understand, ma'am." He gives me that sad, pitiful smile that I loathe so much, and it echoes through all of the times Dana has seen it before. It takes all of my mental willpower not to walk out and leave. I grit my teeth and nod once more. Like a detective, he figures out my stance on small talk and instead proceeds to lead the way to the interrogation room.

_**~MoD~**_

_I nod, still smiling. "Just be careful," I tell him, kicking his shin. "I've gone to some pretty bad destinations on trains."_

_You nod, as if you know. "So why do you still ride them?"  
_

_This time, I know what I'm saying. "Because I want to prove that it wasn't my fault for riding the train."_

**_~MoD~_**

On my way home, as I'm driving, I go over the interview. I remember him asking about my background, which I gave him the clipped version of. I told him about my relationship with Falcon. I told him that I found him dead in his car when I wondered why he hadn't picked me up for our date. I explained that I dragged his corpse into the morgue after the crime scene wrapped up because that was my job. _Yes, of course I used latex gloves, I'm not an idiot. I'm sorry, I just don't like when people treat me like an idiot. Yes, it is Asperger's Syndrome, aren't you a genius. All right, all right. Just move on with it, you're getting on my nerves. _

Then began the half-truths. _No, I don't know who would do this to him; I only knew him for a few weeks. No, I don't know if he made any enemies. It was an open relationship; I honestly don't care who he fucked. He knows I'm seeing a woman. Yes, a woman, please shut up about it, I didn't invite you. I don't have much to tell you, Officer Kong, other than you're very much getting on my nerves. I work with you guys on a regular basis. I help solve crimes like these. Far be it from me to go against my profession and lie about my examination. I'll have you know my supervisor was over my shoulder the entire time in case this should happen. Well, then, I'll send you my examination. It should have my supervisor's signature on the bottom. It appears to be a bloodletting. Are we done? Good. You have a pleasant day._

_...can I take the donuts with me? Thank you._

I take my exit on North Greeley, grateful to be close to home already, and grateful to have a few donuts in a box leftover to snack on. It was only six, and the summer sun hadn't set yet, so I didn't have any intentions to head over to Jacquie's just yet. I didn't want to come off as too pushy; that isn't attractive.

I sigh. I think too much.

I try not to think of Doug, but given that the man only recently died, it's impossible not to. The thought of Douglas is synonymous with how I occasionally recognize how little I show appreciation for people. I'm a fast thinker, he was a fast talker in a fast moving world. That's probably how we bonded.

I don't feel any guilt over the situation, however, because guilt is useless.

I wonder if they've put his casket in the ground yet.

I turn off of Greeley onto humble Sumner Court just by the Adidas Complex, and my humble bungalow home is within sight.

I pull up into my house, grabbing my purse and the box of donuts. I throw open the door to my car and all but leap out, stretching my muscles as I kick the door shut. I skip up the stairs, grateful for the fact that the worst of the day is over.

That's when I hear a crunch as I step on the walkway.

_Hmm?_

To the surprise of few, I am very meticulous about my lawn. The earth shakes when there is even a slight disturbance within it. This isn't right.

I close my eyes and sigh before I look down.

Oh Jesus.

I close my eyes again.

When I take my next step, I hear it again. I can't deny it any longer.

I open my eyes again and address the glass that litters my pathway I know it will take forever to scrape out of the sidewalk cracks, but that's the least of my worries.

Sighing, I look up at the nearest window, only there isn't a window anymore.

Fuck me.

Just as I feared, there are telltale fragments of window left where the whole should be. A sharp breeze tears through it, leaving the curtains as frantic as I am.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not yet.

The worst of the day has just begun.

**_~MoD~_**

_You smile. It's not the smile you have when you're on your game. "I like that," you tell me. "I'm Douglas."_

_I nod, holding out my hand. "I'm Peach." _

_You shake it, and I realize that it's going to be really hard to break you.  
_

**_~MoD~_**

**This is for Startisan and Archlang's contest. They asked for suspense, and I decided to go darker than I ever have before. Am I toeing a few lines? Indubitably. Am I going to hell? Honey, I already was. So I may as well snap out of loverly romantic poetry mode and try and get a little bit of dirt in my shoes.**

**The main character is Peach. She is understandably out of character. Douglas is Captain Falcon, Finnegan is Dr. Mario, Danny Kong is D.K. and Jacqueline is the first appearance of the Wii Fit Trainer in one of my stories. **

**Thanks to Tune for being my lovely beta. **

**Hope that you find this story suspenseful. **

**~MoD**


End file.
